


Time's Witness

by WritingIsMyGame



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyGame/pseuds/WritingIsMyGame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Private detective Abbie Mills gets a new client and a mysterious assignment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have too many works in progress already, but I got this idea in my head and it wouldn’t let me go. So there it is. ;)

Slick.

That was her first impression—and her second and her third.

Damien Moloch had a shock of dark hair, slicked back and tamed, that was in sharp contrast to his pale as cream skin. The black and white motif he had going on was only emphasized by the severe black suit and tie he wore. His only accoutrements were a set of gold cufflinks that gleamed against the crisp whiteness of his shirt.

Abbie Mills studied him for a moment, trying to determine what it was that creeped her out so much about the man. He stood deferentially, not in an intimidating way, and he had been nothing but polite since he’d entered her office a moment before.

And Sophie had made wide-eyed, silent exclamations about his hotness behind him as she exited the room.

The man’s demeanor also spoke of money—something the Mills Detective Agency was always in short supply of.

_Hear the man out, Mills._

Abbie finally, reluctantly, rose to her feet and extended her hand. “Mr. Moloch, a pleasure to meet you.” She released his hand and then waved toward one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Won’t you sit down?”

He inclined his head, waited until she’d retaken her seat, and then seated himself. Moloch crossed one lean leg over the other and gave her a brief smile. “The pleasure is mine, detective.”

Abbie pulled a notebook out from one of the drawers in her desk, opened it to a new, fresh page, uncapped her pen and then raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “So, how can I help you?”

Moloch assessed her for a moment before he opened the briefcase he’d brought in with him, rummaged around in it for a moment, and then handed her a photograph.

She didn’t look at the photograph right away, keeping her eyes on Moloch as he closed the briefcase and set it back down on the floor at his feet.

“That,” he said in a soft voice, “is a picture of Ichabod Crane.”

At his words, Abbie finally turned her attention to the picture in her hand.

The picture was obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge. The angle and the quality indicated to her that it was taken from a high resolution telephoto lens, likely from some distance away from the subject.

The subject himself was oddly dressed. That was the second thing she noticed. He looked as if he were a refugee from a Colonial re-enactors’ group. He wore a long navy blue coat that reached about mid-thigh, dark-colored breeches and knee-high black boots.

Internally, she allowed herself a little chuckle. It was always something. Was this guy protesting the demolition of some rambling brick building that George Washington had once slept in? Her eyes flicked to Moloch, who hadn’t moved a muscle since he handed her the photograph. It was if he had stilled himself, ready to…pounce, almost.

It was a bit disconcerting.

She turned her gaze back to the photograph and let her eyes wander up to the man’s face.

And Abbie found then that she lost a breath. She wasn’t quite sure where it went. And it certainly hadn’t hightailed it out of her mouth at the sight of Ichabod Crane’s beautiful face. 

No. Definitely not.

Abbie held the photograph out to Moloch, who shook his head. 

“You keep it.”

Abbie frowned a little but put the photograph down on her desk. Then, she looked at Moloch again. “So, this is Ichabod Crane. Why do you have his picture and exactly what do you want me to do?”

“Ichabod Crane is...” Moloch paused a moment and then continued, “…a very interesting man. He’s the son of a wealthy family in Scotland, has been a professor of history at Oxford University and a soldier, and he’s now a resident here in the United States.”

Abbie didn’t comment but just raised an eyebrow at him. Moloch smiled at that.

“I would like to make an offer to him for some equipment he currently has possession of,” Moloch said, as he again reached for his briefcase. “It’s a generous offer, and I’d like to have you deliver it to him and obtain his reply.”

Abbie’s eyebrows came together into a frown. “Why can’t you just do it yourself? Or send some employee or lawyer to do it?”

“I’ve tried all of those methods, Ms. Mills,” Moloch explained with a self-deprecating smile. “Mr. Crane has rebuffed every overture I’ve made.”

“And what makes you think I’ll succeed where you and your employees have failed?” she asked.

“I do my research, Ms. Mills.” He gave her a knowing look. “I know that you have achieved success for many end-of-the-road, desperate men where others have done nothing but fail.” Moloch pulled out an envelope and slid it across the desk to her. “One hundred thousand as a retainer. You keep that, regardless of the outcome.” He pulled out another larger envelope and laid it on top of the other. “If you succeed, my office will be instructed to wire another five hundred thousand to the account of your choosing.”

Abbie’s heart stuttered. _Six hundred thousand dollars?_ “You must be joking,” she said flatly.

“I assure you, Ms. Mills. This is no joke.” Moloch closed the briefcase again. “If you agree to take this case, you will earn every bit of that one hundred-thousand-dollar retainer, believe me.” He gave her a not very pleasant smile. “Ichabod Crane will be one of those most difficult nuts you’ll ever crack.”

“Why do you think I’d be the one to crack him?” she demanded.

Moloch smiled again. “Like I said, Ms. Mills. I do my research.”

She frowned and looked down at the two envelopes. Something didn’t sit right about the man. What could Ichabod Crane possibly have that a man like this would want so badly he would be willing to pay six hundred thousand dollars to a private detective to obtain?

“Are you willing to take my case, Ms. Mills?” he asked in that soft voice again.

Abbie hesitated, this time ignoring the envelopes and looking at the picture of Ichabod Crane. A tiny, small spark danced down her spine as she looked at him. She didn’t know what it was, but she wanted, all of the sudden, to have the opportunity to meet the man in the flesh. There was something there. Not just the buzz of sexual attraction, although there was that. But it was the telltale thrill inside that he set off questions in her head that she wanted answers to.

A puzzle and an adventure all in one Colonially-dressed man.

Abbie Mills could never resist the pull of a good mystery. 

No matter where it led her or why, she knew from the moment she’d laid eyes on his picture.

Ichabod Crane was a mystery she was going to solve.

Without another thought, Abbie reached her hand across the table to Moloch, who took and shook it. “You’ve got yourself a detective, Mr. Moloch.”


	2. Chapter 2

After Moloch had left her office, Abbie sat in a kind of stunned silence, trying to just process what she’d observed and seen of the man. She hadn’t even started to process her strange reaction to Ichabod Crane himself.

Abbie glanced at her desk where the photograph of the man lay on top of the envelope Moloch had given her. The strange, weird pull was still there. Only now, it was accompanied by an itch to open the envelope. An extremely strong itch.

But before she could do more than slide the photograph out of the way, the door opened up, and her assistant, Sophie Foster, came bursting into the room.

“Oh. My. _God_.” Sophie threw herself down into one of the chairs in front of Abbie’s desk, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Please tell me you took his case. That gold watch he was wearing was a Rolex. He’s got money, Abs. And you know we need money.”

She crossed her legs then and the look on her face settled into a knowing smile. “And he was pure sex on a stick. I’d tap that.”

Abbie rolled her eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Jenny.”

Sophie blithely ignored her comment and gestured at Abbie impatiently. “Well? Did you take the case?”

Abbie paused for a moment. Strangely, she felt reluctant to discuss Ichabod Crane with her vivacious assistant. Sophie was a former FBI agent, smart as a whip, with an enthusiasm that she herself had been missing for some time. A lot of the cases they got, she often had Sophie do most of the legwork for. 

Especially after that last spectacular disaster of a case.

Internally, Abbie shook herself. _Do not go there. Do not_. Instead, she struggled to focus on her employee and friend. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I did.”

“I figured you did,” Sophie said cheerfully. “Especially since he asked me to send our bank’s wire transfer information over to his secretary as he was leaving.”

“Then why ask me?” Abbie retorted, irritated.

“To see your reaction, mostly,” Sophie said with a teasing smile. She then turned her attention to the photograph and envelope on the desk. “Missing person? Cheating wife?”

Abbie shook her head as she pushed the photograph of Ichabod Crane over to Sophie. “Mr. Moloch wants me to convince that man to sell him some piece of equipment he has.”

Sophie got a look of confusion on her face. “Really? That’s kind of an odd request.”

“I agree.” She gave her friend a wry smile. “Especially when he’s willing to pay _me_ 600,000 dollars to get him to agree to the sale.”

“Six…” Sophie choked on the word, even as she was reaching for the photograph. “Are you _serious_?”

Abbie nodded. “A hundred thousand as a retainer, and five hundred thousand when I’ve convinced him to sell.”

“What is it that this guy has that Mr. Moloch wants so badly?” Sophie demanded. By this time, she had Ichabod Crane’s picture in hand. “Wow. Um…is this the day for hotties?” She waved the picture. “Because, even in the reenactor gear, he’s pretty. In fact, the Colonial look makes him even more pretty, if you know what I mean.”

“Sophie,” Abbie said with a sigh.

Sophie flashed a smile at her. “What? It’s been four months, Abs, since that last disaster boyfriend of mine. I’m ready for something new and delicious.”

“Well, Mr. Moloch and Mr. Crane are off the table, Sophie. They’re our client and case, not people for you and Jenny to go out bumping and grinding with.”

Sophie merely grinned at her. “Speaking of Jenny…”

“We are _not_ speaking of Jenny at this moment in time.” Abbie picked up the envelope and tore it open, peering inside. “You go do some recon work for me and find out all you can about Ichabod Crane.” She nodded toward the photograph.

“Ichabod? That’s an interesting name,” Sophie said, her nose wrinkling.

“I’m sure his mother would have consulted with you about naming her son, but you weren’t even a twinkle in your parents’ eyes at the time,” she replied dryly.

“Ha, ha, ha.” Sophie stuck her tongue out at her as she got to her feet. “Anything in the envelope on a place to start looking?”

Abbie pulled out several pieces of paper, one containing what appeared to be several addresses and telephone numbers. She handed it to Sophie. “Looks like this would be a good place to start.”

“I’ll get on it!” Sophie stood and headed toward the door. As she exited the room, she called out behind her, “I’ll let you know what I find out!”

Abbie didn’t bother to respond as the door quickly closed behind Sophie. She then turned her attention to the remainder of the envelope’s contents. One looked to be a legal document of some sort, and the other was a letter, written by Mr. Moloch, explaining she was his representative and had the permission to act on his behalf.

For a good while, Abbie studied the documents. The legal document awaited Ichabod Crane’s signature and indicated that it was a transfer of sale of something called The Watch of Time. 

“The Watch of Time?” Abbie frowned at the paper. Nothing there to tell what a “watch of time” even was. She assumed, based on Ichabod Crane’s prior run-ins with Mr. Moloch and his representative, that he would know exactly what watch of time Moloch was referring to.

She glanced over at the clock and replaced the documents into the envelope. _Only ten_. She hoped Sophie would find the best route to Ichabod Crane quickly. 

Because, for once, she was itching to get out and do some legwork herself.

But for the moment, Abbie had to trust Sophie to get her the information she needed. 

And there was that report for Mr. Gladstone she needed to type up.

With a deep sigh, Abbie opened up a new document on her computer and went to work on Mr. Gladstone’s report.

And if she looked at the closed door every few minutes, waiting for Sophie to pop in, well, she’d never tell anyone.

**Meanwhile…**

There was nothing more frustrating than 21st century technology.

Ichabod Crane was a brilliant man. His parents had thought so. His two older brothers had always complained he was too smart for his own good. He’d excelled at Oxford University. His knowledge of 18th century firearms and warfare had been under the tutelage of General George Bloody Washington.

And yet, these pieces of intricately created plastic and metal continued to confound him.

Ichabod pressed another key on the computer laptop in front of him and a blue color filled the screen with some sort of error message. “Damn it all to hell!” he snapped.

“My lord,” began a voice nearby.

His brows immediately creased into a frown. “I’m a damned American, David. Stop addressing me with a title.”

“But your father was an earl, sir.”

“Yes, and I have two older brothers.” Ichabod glared at him.

“…who have been dead since 1799 and 1810, respectively.”

“As far as the entire nobility of England is concerned, David, I predeceased them in 1781. The line is extinct.”

David’s own wrinkled face settled into a familiar frown. It was a day to day battle between David’s militantly correct Britishness and his own rather lapsed American version.

“I’m tired of this bloody argument, David. I don’t care if the Queen herself comes here to restore my father’s title from extinction and hand it to me on a silver platter. I. don’t. want. it.” Ichabod’s enunciation was clear, tight and full of as much British noble sneer as he could muster. “I defected from England and helped the American colonials fight a revolution against the British Crown. I was disowned by my father and told never to return. No title for this boy. End of story.”

David sighed. 

Those sighs themselves were enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Now tell me what you want and leave me be.” Ichabod turned his gaze back to the laptop, glaring at the blue screen. “Bloody computers.”

“Mr. Jack Walters is here to see you,” David said with an offended sniff.

Ichabod closed his eyes, suppressing a groan. “Can you tell him I’ve left the premises?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. He _is_ my employer.”

“Of course he is.” Ichabod slammed the lid of the laptop shut. “It seems like everyone _in_ this bloody town is under his employ,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Shall I show him in here, sir?”

“No.” His voice was curt as he rose to his feet. “I don’t want that man in here.” He took a breath and headed toward the door. “I will go to him.”

“Very good, sir. He’s in the parlor.”

Ichabod barely held in a derisive snort. He swore that David had watched too many films about how England supposedly used to be during his lifetime.

The man would have been in for a real shock if he’d been sent back in time to meet his father’s butler and see how a real British nobleman’s house had been run. Ichabod’s lips quirked up at the thought. _Good old Hampton._

Fredericks Manor was not his father’s estate, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a beautiful property, and it had once boasted a lovely parlor. Ichabod could still see it in his mind’s eye. Furniture crafted by the French, hand embroidered curtains from China, and an amazing Persian carpet.

As he crossed the hallway, taking long strides toward the parlor at the front of the house, a pang struck him. The Manor had fallen into deep disrepair after the murder of its owner. Upon arriving at the house, he had been surprised and dismayed to see the place’s decay.

Even with the current owner’s repairs being implemented, it still was not the glorious, warm home he remembered.

Ichabod stepped into the room, ignoring the few mass-produced chairs that littered the area. He always asked David to seat guests in the parlor. It was dark, depressing and unwelcoming. Exactly how he liked it. It kept guests from wanting to venture further in.

If a guest proved to be worth the effort to get to know, Ichabod would have him or her back into the library—the only truly restored room in the house.

He had yet to find such a person.

“Mr. Walters,” Ichabod said, letting the irritation in his voice show.

“Mr. Crane.” Jack Walters did not rise from his seat at Ichabod’s entrance into the room. This was yet another strike among many against the man. His manners were abhorrent.

Ichabod liked nothing about Jack Walters.

“It has been over a week since my office has heard from you.”

“Is that right?” Ichabod walked into the room, ignoring the chair near to Walters, instead opting to wander over by the large bay window that overlooked the recently cut lawn outside. “I’m afraid time flies rather fast for me.” He gave Walters a not very nice smile. “It feels like it’s only been a month since 1781.”

Walters studied him for several moments before saying, “You haven’t found the other witness yet.”

Ichabod rolled his eyes and turned back toward the window.

“Time is very crucial on this matter, Mr. Crane. I thought that I had made myself quite clear.”

“Oh, you were _quite_ clear, Mr. Walters.” Ichabod refused to look back at the man, trying to stamp down the anger churning up inside him.

“We’ve given you a list of potentials. I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“The _problem_ , Mr. Walters, is that the 21st century is very little different from the 18th century. Strange men approaching a quick succession of women elicits gossip.” He looked back over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “And I have the added disadvantage of not being, as you would say, ‘up to speed’ on the 21st century.” He scowled at Walters. 

“We’ve provided you with a whole wardrobe of 21st century clothing, tutors on recent history and culture, a cell phone and a laptop…”

“The bloody fucking laptop.” He glared at Walters. “Which yet again has a blue screen with errors on it.”

Walters sighed. “We’ll get someone out to look at it.” He gestured toward the outside. “But in the meantime, Crane, you need to be working toward finding the other witness.” His face grew very grim. “I don’t need to tell you all that is at stake.”

“No,” Ichabod said, smiling the not-very-nice smile again. “You’ve told me. Repeatedly.” He raised the same eyebrow again. “Do I need to remind you of my eidetic memory?”

“I don’t know how the fuck Washington thought you were the right man for this job,” Walters said, his tone icy. “But he did. And we’re stuck with you.” He rose to his feet. “Find the other witness. No more games.”

With that, he strode across the room and out into the hallway. A few moments later, Ichabod heard the door slam and saw Walters heading toward his expensive car that was parked in front of the house on the semi-circle drive.

“Bastard,” he muttered to himself.

Ichabod waited at the window until he saw Walters’ car disappear down the driveway and off the property. Then, he turned on his heel, headed out into the hallway and returned back to the large, cozy library at the back of the house.

David had disappeared in the interim, so Ichabod closed the door and turned the old key in the lock, blocking out the butler-wannabe and any other secret staff that might be lurking around the property.

He supposed there were likely cameras hidden in the room, capturing his every movement. At that moment in time, he didn’t care.

He sank down onto the leather couch that reminded him of one his father had had in his study back in England. Every time he sat on it, a mixture of painful, permanent memories vied for his attention. 

Thirty days of torture. Waking up 232 years in the future. Everyone he’d ever known and loved was dead. Sent on a final mission for Washington that he still had no bloody idea how to complete. The only clue he had was a gold pocket watch, given to him the day before his final battle with the Hessian—the day before his death.

Ichabod pulled out the pocket watch, running his finger over the gold swirls on its cover. Despite the large dent in the surface, thanks to the glancing blow it received from the masked Hessian who’d killed him in 1781, it still worked.

The time was off from the current time by three hours and fourteen minutes, but he hadn’t wanted to change the time when he’d first arrived in the 21st century, wanting desperately to cling to the time which he’d left.

But after a week or so, his sense of order couldn’t live with a pocket watch so far out of time. So, he’d attempted to change the time on the watch.

It was only then that he’d discovered that this pocket watch that Washington had given him had no mechanism for changing its time.

It ticked merrily on, not even needing winding.

No way to open it. He’d tried. Dropping it didn’t work. Neither did smashing it. The only imperfection that ever marred its surface was the blow of the axe from the Hessian.

If there was a message inside the watch, he’d be damned if he could find it.

And so here he was, years in the future, trying to figure out what to do next.

Walters claimed he was part of a secret society sent to look for the two witnesses by Washington. It was Walters’ crew that had found him stumbling through the main street of Sleepy Hollow and whisked him away to Fredericks Manor.

He had distrusted the man on sight. Walters wasn’t a man who Washington would have entrusted with anything.

But Walters kept mentioning the second witness. And since Walters was eager to provide him with 21st century assistance in finding this witness, Ichabod had decided to play along—for now.

He knew the watch had meaning, though, and the three hours and fourteen minutes of delayed time had to be important.

But why? And for what purpose was he truly here?

Was there a second witness? And what would happen if he found her?

His mind churned on these questions and more, day after day, and night after night. He never found any answers.

The door handle rattled, but the lock kept the intruder out.

Ichabod smiled.

“Sir, it’s me, David. The cook wants to know what you would like for lunch.”

A deep wistfulness spiraled through him. He thought of the succulent dinners at his father’s table of roast duck, venison and tasty puddings. Or the delicious ale they served at Fraunces’ Tavern in New York City.

Nothing in this time he’d tasted so far had been able to come anywhere close to what he’d eaten back then.

He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. “Go away, David.”

“My lord…”

“Go. _Away._ ”

Another one of David’s sighs could be heard loudly through the door before Ichabod finally heard the man’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

It had been a restless night for him the previous night. Full of death and agony and mayhem. Unfortunately, all too typical for the common soldier.

“Perhaps just a brief nap,” he said softly to himself. “And then I’ll start the hunt anew.”

Within a few moments, Ichabod was asleep, unaware of the pocket watch’s second hand spinning madly around at a much faster rate than normal, ticking off two minutes instead of one.

And then it resumed its normal, silent ticking of time.


	3. Chapter 3

A couple hours’ worth of sleep had rejuvenated him. For once, he’d slept dream-free and awoken rested. Katrina had always said he was fit for neither man or beast when he was tired. And it’d been a long, long time since he’d awoken untired.

He winced, then, wishing his mind hadn’t yet again traveled down the path to think about Katrina.

Jack Walters had provided him with a plethora of information about his wife—information he’d have gone to the grave happier if he’d never known. Not a true Quaker, but a witch who belonged to a coven who was burned at the stake a few years after his “death.” A woman who’d birthed a son she’d never told him she was having. His son who’d died a few years later in a fire at the orphanage in which he’d been placed after his mother perished.

His grief clutched at his heart in odd, strange ways. A bitter, angry sadness over Katrina’s deceptions and the short, terrible life of his son.

Walters had reminded him that Katrina’s spell had made certain he hadn’t died over the two centuries he’d been underground. A noble act. Preserving him for his “witnessing” duties, whatever that meant.

But what bloody good was it to have survived? To be in the 21st century with no connections? To have every person he’d ever known be dead and gone? To have to live with this raw, aching grief that never seemed to abate, no matter what he did?

Ichabod shoved his hands into his coat’s pockets, a scowl on his face as he exited the SUV he’d been provided. Driving was one of the few 21st century marvels that he actually enjoyed. The power of the machinery, the incredible speeds the SUV could travel… 

The inventor of cars was certainly an amazing person indeed.

He closed the door to the car and leaned against it for a moment, brooding a little. It would be so easy to turn around and just go back to the manor and sleep for days. To try to push out the flood of memories—of the damned memories he couldn’t erase—and sleep.

But sleep wasn’t his friend, any more than consciousness was. Sleep was full of war, blood and death. He still heard the sound of muskets and the screams of his dying men.

Consciousness provided him with his mission. Whether Walters’ desire for him to find the second witness had anything to do with Washington’s instructions, he wasn’t certain. But he had a sliver of hope that the second witness might be able to shed some light as to what the watch meant and what they were to do with it.

That was his hope, anyway.

Ichabod rolled his shoulders and put his mind to the task of recalling the file of his next possible witness match.

Walters had apparently determined that Grace Dixon had been the ancestor of the witness he was supposed to find. Ichabod wasn’t certain how he’d determined this, but he remembered the graceful lady from his time. He’d liked her, and he hoped her descendant had inherited some of her sweetness and lively intelligence.

Walters was also insistent that the descendant had to be female. Again, Ichabod Crane didn’t know why this was the case. Of course, it might have been that the only currently alive descendants of Grace Dixon were female.

Or it also could be a yin and yang sort of thing. One man, one woman. God seemed to enjoy that sort of thing. He started out the world that way, and it seemed rather fitting that he’d end it that way, too.

Grace Dixon had had many descendants. Most of them were still in New York, but a few had traveled to other parts of the United States, which stretched far beyond anything Ichabod had conceived of. One lived over 3000 miles away in a city called Los Angeles.

He hoped, however, that he’d be able to find the witness in New York. He didn’t relish the idea of getting too far away from where he had died in 1781. He didn’t know if perhaps there was some way he’d be able to complete Washington’s mission, return to his own time, and to prevent the premature death of his wife and son.

Likely a fruitless hope, but a stubborn one, nonetheless.

In the meantime, however, the witness search continued.

He’d checked off twenty-five possible descendants of Grace Dixon as “not witnesses”. Walters assured him that he’d “know” when he met the witness. He certainly hoped so. There were only three remaining Dixon descendants in New York: Sophia Foster, great-granddaughter of Grace’s great-grandson, Thomas Foster, and Abigail and Jennifer Mills, great-granddaughters of Grace’s great-granddaughter, Grace Foster Roberts.

All three of the women had rather interesting pasts and selections of skills, but he had decided to start with Jennifer Mills. He wasn’t certain why, exactly, but the fact that Jennifer had a criminal past and had visited a huge variety of countries all over the world intrigued him. He wondered if her canny knack for getting in and out of trouble was due to witness blood.

He’d often wondered himself if his own propensity for adventure and trouble stemmed from witness blood as well.

Ichabod perused the street in front of him. Jennifer Mills was not exactly a creature of habit. If she had any habits at all, it was a habit of being very, very cautious about being followed.

She had worked in a variety of jobs over the past few years, most in easily obtained, easily abandoned professions like waitressing, bartending and retail work.

Her latest job was that of a bartender for Mabie’s Tavern. He was frankly surprised that the place still existed after all this time. He remembered sitting within its confines, discussing plans with Washington and others back in the day.

A thread of wistfulness wove through him. Would that he were back there now, discussing strategy and tactics with them rather than debating how to “chat up” yet another one of Grace Dixon’s descendants.

With a sigh, Ichabod shifted away from the car, straightened his coat, and strode across the street toward Mabie’s as the sun made its way toward the horizon behind him.

It took him a moment or two to let his eyes adjust to the interior of the old tavern. Various groups of people sat in small clumps around the large greatroom. The bar was the room’s centerpiece, stretching from one end of the room to the other. Gleaming colored glass bottles decorated the wall behind the bar, and several men of different stripes sat on stools in front of it, each one obviously trying to catch the eye of the lithe, striking woman behind it.

Jennifer Mills was quite a beauty. Her long, curly dark hair was gathered back into a loose ponytail, and she walked with a muscular grace that he, as well as many others, could appreciate. Her smile flashed often as she mixed drinks and passed them to a patron here, a waitress there, and he could hear her laugh chiming above the din of the people around her.

Ichabod noticed a rather stout, semi-inebriated man vacating one of the stools near the far end of the bar. His long-legged stride made certain that he obtained the seat before any of the other customers eyeing it could.

Jennifer was in the middle of pouring out a drink for a half-drunk businessman obviously on the way home from work, nodding and smiling as he told her his story of woe. From what Ichabod could overhear, it involved a wife who didn’t understand him and a boss who never gave him credit for anything.

Ichabod’s lip curled in disgust. _Perhaps if your arse wasn’t planted in a barstool so often, your life would have more meaning and purpose._ He let his mind berate the man while he kept his mouth quiet, studying the woman behind the bar instead.

His gaze got through to her fairly quickly, and once she had finished handing the other man his drink, Jennifer moved away from him, slowly walking along behind the bar, picking up empty glasses and tip money, all as smooth as silk, until she reached him. Her mouth curved up into a saucy smile as she pulled a rag from her hip pocket, cleaned off the bar in front of him, and raised an eyebrow. “So, tall, dark and handsome, what can I do for you?”

“What’s the best house ale?” he asked.

“Tall, dark and _British_ ,” she said. Her smile grew wider, and if possible, saucier. “My favorite kind.” Jennifer tilted her head as she idly rubbed the cloth against the bar. “Well, the Samuel Adams Boston ale isn’t too bad, or if you want to try something a bit different, we’ve got a Dark Horse blueberry stout that’s good. My personal favorite is Bell’s Expedition Stout.” She gave him a look of inquiry. “Any of those sound good to you?”

“Give me the Expedition Stout,” he said, after a moment. He flashed his teeth at her—teeth that still felt strange and fresh and new after the long hour or two he spent in the dentist’s chair getting them cleaned and fixed soon after his arrival in the 21st century.

“You’ve got it, British,” she said with a wink and a deliberate swish of her hips.

She was beautiful. He’d give her that. And he was pretty certain, with that delicious smile that promised all sorts of naughty things, that she’d make any man thank his maker for a night spent with her in his bed.

But there was nothing else. No special signal from God or whatever angel was in charge of His witnesses that she was the one. 

Ichabod sighed. Well, at least he’d enjoy the ale Miss Mills recommended, before he headed off to regroup and find one of the other two remaining New York ladies he had to check out.

A moment later, an open bottle was pushed in front of him, and Jennifer Mills gave him another one of those smiles. “On the house, British.”

He blinked and then gave her a rather knowing smile of his own before he lifted the bottle in a salute. “My thanks,” he said simply.

She gave him a flash of a grin before heading down toward the other end of the bar, where a dark-haired woman had slid onto another bar stool.

Ichabod took a sip of the stout, let it slide down his throat and let out a happy little sound. Every bit as good as Miss Mills had promised it would be.

At the very least, Miss Jennifer Mills knew a good ale when she saw one.

He closed his eyes as he took another long pull on the bottle, and for a moment, he could almost imagine that he was sitting at the bar with his long-ago friend, Abraham, enjoying one of Mabie’s finest ales.

Almost.

Meanwhile…

Jenny Mills had spotted Sophie the moment she walked into the tavern, but tall, dark and British, even with his strange Colonial mojo, was a higher priority than her friend. Sophie, she could see any old time.

But after she’d given British his ale and heard his little moan of delight after drinking a sip, Jenny had headed down to the end of the bar, a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look on her face.

“Soph! What brings you to my neck of the woods? Abbie let you go early? Is the world ending?” Jenny leaned up against the bar, a teasing smile on her face.

“You talked to him?” Sophie hissed at her.

Jenny gave her a strange look. “What? No hello? Nice to see you, too, Sophie.”

“Him!” she hissed again. “Ichabod Crane!” Sophie tilted her head toward tall, dark and British at the other end of the bar.

“God damn it,” Jenny muttered. She glared at Sophie. “Do not tell me that you or Abbie have your mitts on him. I saw him first.”

Sophie shook her head impatiently. “He’s work-related,” she said in a low voice.

Jenny raised an eyebrow at her. “Client or case?” she asked, keeping her voice low like Sophie.

“Case.” Sophie pulled out her wallet and threw down a twenty. “Get me something to drink so I don’t look so obvious sitting here. You know what I like.”

Jenny rolled her eyes as she picked up the twenty and shoved it into her pocket. Then she flicked a gaze down toward British. “Ichabod Crane? What the hell kind of name is that?”

“How should I know? Do I look like his mother?” Sophie demanded.

Jenny turned her gaze back to Sophie. “Please tell me he’s a cheating husband. I’ll be glad to be a honey trap for that man.” She deliberately licked her lips. 

Sophie snorted. “If anyone’s honey trapping that man, it’s going to be me.” She pushed a long lock of hair off her shoulder and leaned forward. “But sadly, no. No honey trapping necessary. As far as I know, he’s not even married.”

“Damn.” She frowned then. “What am I saying? Not married? Handsome? Can speak words of more than one syllable? I should be all over that." She gave Sophie a suspicious look. "Why is he your case? What’s wrong with him?”

“You just wish there was something bad about him,” Sophie said with a knowing look. “Nothing like that that I know of.” She ran a hand over the bar’s counter. “I’m just supposed to observe, not interact with him. Get some intel. That sort of thing.” She waved her hands at Jenny. “Go get me that drink already.”

“Fine. But don’t blame me if you don’t like my Cosmopolitans. You look like a girly kind of drink girl.” 

Sophie groaned but Jenny ignored her. Instead, her gaze returned to Ichabod Crane, who had stopped his drinking about half way through the bottle, and had pulled out an old style pocket watch. 

The man himself was damned distracting, with his long lean lines and strange way of dressing, but Jenny’s gaze soon turned toward the pocket watch.

It was gleaming gold, as if it were brand new, but the style was old. There was a large dent in its cover, but other than that, looked intact.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a little intake of breath. 

She’d heard stories. Nothing concrete—a whisper here or there. Stories about George Washington and an old pocket watch. One that enabled its owner to travel in time.

He had an old-fashioned name. He wore Colonial era clothes.

Time seemed to slow down in that moment. Memories flooded through her mind. 

_You’re a watcher, Jennifer. A watcher. Abbie’s a witness. You need to find the other witness. Protect him. He’s coming for Abbie. Keep him safe until he finds her. You can’t let them find him first. He’ll have an old pocket watch with him. That’s how you’ll know. That’s your job, baby. Find the witness and get him to Abbie. You get that?_

Her mother had been crazy. Everyone knew that. Her ramblings about her being a watcher and Abbie being a witness never had made any sense. The woman claimed she’d seen demons coming for her, for God’s sake.

But Jenny couldn’t get rid of the sudden, urgent feeling that if she let Ichabod Crane waltz out of that bar, she’d be making a very, very bad mistake.

With a nonchalance she definitely didn’t feel, Jenny slowly made her way back to the end of the bar. Ichabod Crane, upon seeing her movement, tucked his pocket watch back inside his coat and took another long drink of his bottle. 

When she’d reached him, he raised a rather wicked looking eyebrow at her. The beginnings of a very mischievous smile began to cross his face.

But she didn’t let him talk first. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Does the word ‘witness’ mean anything to you?”

The smile vanished from his face, and there was a sudden stillness in the man. He didn’t say anything for a very long time as he studied her face, searching for something in her. Something he didn’t apparently see. He frowned then and finally spoke, asking, “Does it mean something to you?”

Jenny paused a moment before she leaned in, her face very close to his, and whispered, “If I said I was a watcher and knew where the second witness was and that I’m under orders to protect you and get you to her, what would you say?”

His eyes widened, startled at her proximity. He hesitated and then finally replied, “I’d say thank you, gratefully, and ask when we could leave, Jennifer Mills.”

Jenny raised an eyebrow. _He knows your name. Curiouser and curiouser._ She then looked over toward one of the waitresses who was returning with a tray of used glasses. “Kitty, can you cover for me for the rest of the night? Something’s come up. Family matter.”

Kitty gave her a suspicious look but nodded. “Whatever you need.”

Jenny then took off her apron, tossed it behind the bar, and gave Crane a nod. “Let’s go, British.”

Ichabod darted a glance at Kitty, who shrugged, before rising and following Jenny across the tavern. Jenny ignored Sophie’s wide-eyed look as she led Ichabod into the kitchen, past the surprised cook, and out the back door, where her motorcycle was waiting.

He looked at her bike with a measure of interest. She smiled as she slid on her helmet and pulled out another for him from her saddlebag. “Ever ridden one of these before?”

Ichabod shook his head. She kicked up the kickstand and swung her leg over the bike

“Well, now’s your chance, British. Hop on.”

He studied her and the motorcycle for a moment before he mimicked her, swinging his leg over the seat of the bike, and settled in behind her.

“Wrap your arms around me,” she instructed.

Gingerly, he did so, and Jenny was sorry for just a moment that Tall, Dark and British wasn’t meant to be hers. Abbie had all the luck, curse her.

Ichabod’s cultured, beautiful voice spoke then in her ear, his breath tickling against her cheek. “Dare I even ask where we’re going?”

She didn’t answer that question. Instead, she asked him another one. “Anything on you that could track you? Like a phone?”

“I left that in the car,” he said. “It’s the black SUV parked on the street.”

“We’ll get you a new phone.” She gestured toward his pocket. “Keys?”

He pulled out a ring with two keys on it. One was obviously an electronic key for the SUV, and another looked to be a house key.

“Leave the keys behind.”

He looked at her, another one of those long, searching looks, before he nodded and tossed the keys toward the large dumpster in the back of the tavern. They sank to the bottom with a satisfying clink.

“What did you arrive in Sleepy Hollow with?” she asked.

“The clothes I’m wearing and my pocket watch,” he replied.

“Good. Nothing else hiding somewhere?”

Ichabod shook his head.

“That’s all you’ll need now, then,” she said. “If you need anything later, we’ll get it.”

Jenny turned on the engine and let it roar. Ichabod leaned more tightly in, hugging her from behind.

“Is this safe?” he demanded.

She grinned at him. “No. Not at all.” She paused before she asked with a raise of her eyebrow. “Scared?”

He gave her a smirk that was so delicious that she had to catch her breath for a moment. “Not in the least, Miss Mills. Not in the least.”

“Then let’s blow this popsicle stand, British.”

And with that, she gunned the motor, and the two of them headed off toward the slowly sinking sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No insults meant to waitresses, bartenders or people working in retail, who are amazing and work their asses off. I was more referring to the fact that it's easier to get a job as a waitress than, say, a professor at Oxford University. :)
> 
> I also do not drink ale, so I have no idea what is good. I went online to get other people's recommendations, and I tried to use some they had on the show. If I'm off on the alcohol, you can rest assured that it is because I know nothing about alcohol. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this gets me semi-current on all but one. *grin* Yay!
> 
> Hope you enjoy it. :)

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_!" 

Sophie Foster stared unbelievingly as Jenny Mills led Ichabod Crane-- _her_ Ichabod Crane, _Abbie's_ Ichabod Crane--out of Mabie's Tavern.

 _Okay, yes. The guy was hot._ Damned _hot. But Jenny _knew_ better than to mess with one of Abbie's cases. It made no sense._

Sophie didn't even have the solace of throwing back the rest of a beer. Jenny had walked off with her twenty and hadn't even brought her a damned drink.

"I'm gonna kill her," she muttered under her breath as she ducked away from a leering businessman whose suit didn't fit him properly and who had splashed Scotch on the last three women he'd tried to pick up.

Sophie stalked out of the bar, first checking behind the tavern. Jenny's bike was gone. Then she stormed back to her SUV, which was parked behind Ichabod Crane's, the one she'd followed when she'd happened to see him pull out of Frederick's Manor on her way there.

She sat for several minutes, willing the man to return to his car, even though she knew it wouldn't happen. At least not until morning, anyway.

Sophie whacked her fist against the steering wheel. "Damn it all, anyway!"

In disgust, she backed out of her space and drove with a firm but angry hand back to the office, slamming the door shut as she walked past Wendy, Abbie's part-time receptionist.

Wendy raised both eyebrows at her, but Sophie ignored her and kept striding back toward Abbie's office, noting that the door was open, indicating no new client.

When Sophie finally stormed into Abbie's office, she barely registered that her boss quickly slipped a photograph into the folder on her desk. She pushed the door closed so forcefully that the sound reverberated through the office. One of Abbie's eyebrows winged upward.

Sophie threw herself into one of the chairs in front of Abbie's desk, so angry she swore that there had to be steam rising from her ears.

"I expect you have quite the story for me," Abbie began, her voice trailing off in a leading sort of way.

"Your. Sister."

This was all Sophie could manage at this point. And it did calm a little of her ire to see Abbie groan and put her head in her hands for a moment.

"What now?" Abbie asked in a terse voice.

"I was tailing Ichabod Crane. Just observing, mind you. Getting intel. The lay of the land, so to speak." Sophie took in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she spoke. "He was at Mabie's. Took a corner stool and ordered a drink. From Jenny."

"Okay..." Abbie frowned a little, seemingly unsure where Sophie was going with what she was saying.

"She was chatting him up. Big time." Sophie waved a dismissive hand. "Not that I don't get it, because, honestly, the man is fine. The kind of fine that you want slamming you into your headboard all night long."

"Focus, Soph," Abbie said dryly. "Focus."

"So, she's chatting him up. Then she sees me and comes over. I tell her Mr. Crane is a case and she should back off. And she's glaring at me and telling me that she saw him first." Sophie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I didn't take her seriously, because I couldn't imagine that she would jeopardize a case for you."

"Sophie, what did she _do_?" Her boss' voice was taking on that tone that Sophie privately thought of as the "don't mess with me, bitch!" voice.

One ignored that tone at one's peril.

"She took off with him." Sophie threw her hands up. "She left her _job_ mid-shift and took off with him." She scowled at Abbie. "I am so freaking pissed right now. I sat outside by his fucking car for fifteen minutes, waiting for him to come get it. He never did. Her bike is gone, and he had to be on it with her when he left, because he wasn't outside walking anywhere."

"What the hell did she do that for?" Abbie demanded.

"Damned if I know," Sophie fumed. "And even if she wanted to hook up with him, why the hell did she take off in the middle of her shift? It's fucking strange. Even for Jenny."

"Did you call her?" Abbie asked.

Sophie shook her head. "Too damned mad." She exhaled, gripping the arms of the chair as she shifted agitatedly back and forth. "Plus, I wanted to talk to you before I did something rash. Like shooting her in the back of the head or boiling her in oil or drawing and quartering her."

"I appreciate the consideration." The corners of Abbie's mouth looked as if they wanted to twitch upward.

"Oh, go ahead and laugh," Sophie said with a groan. "Just make my day extra glorious."

"I'm not laughing," her boss replied. "I'm just trying to figure out exactly what the hell Jenny is up to." She sighed. "I gave up trying to police her years ago." Abbie ran a hand through her hair as she continued, "Ichabod Crane's a grown man. Neither he nor Jenny have to answer to us."

"Jenny has to answer to _me_ ," Sophie said stubbornly. "I gave her a twenty, and she didn't even give me a fucking Cosmopolitan."

Abbie's eyebrow rose again. "You drink Cosmpolitans?"

"Don't even start. Do not even start." Sophie raised a finger, jabbing it in Abbie's direction.

Abbie held up her hands. "All right, all right! Don't shoot." She sighed as she lowered her hands then. "Let me call Jenny and find out what's going on." A little frown etched her forehead as she reached for her cell phone.

Meanwhile...

Out of all the things Ichabod Crane had experienced in his brief window of time in the 21st century, riding a motorcycle had to be the top of the best of them. As Jennifer Mills pulled up to a ramshackle cabin in the middle of a clearing tucked back into the woods, he determined that were he to end up having to stay in the 21st century permanently, he would be getting one of them. Immediately, if not sooner.

Jennifer turned off the ignition and threw the kickstand before sliding off the bike in much a way as he would have slid off a horse. He reluctantly mimicked her actions, running a hand over its shiny surface almost wistfully.

"Like it?" she asked, her brown eyes twinkling at him.

"Indeed," he said, his voice firm and his eyes still focused on the machinery. "I want one."

Jennifer chuckled as she walked over to him and gently tugged on the helmet, pulling it off of his head. "We'll work on that," she said. She tucked the helmet into the side pouch and then tilted her head toward the cabin. "Let's get inside. Away from prying eyes, yes?"

Ichabod straightened, moving his hands away from the motorcycle, and regained his normal straight military-esque pose. "Of course," he said politely, gesturing for her to precede him.

Jennifer unlocked the door with an old key that she'd pulled from around her neck. "I'm not sure if we'll stay here long," she explained as she unlocked and pushed open the door. "but it's a good place to start."

The thrill of the motorcycle ride and the promise of the word witness had given Ichabod the impetus to follow the striking young woman, but now that he was here, Ichabod had a sense of unease skittle down his spine. She _seemed_ trustworthy, but how did he know? He'd already been held mostly prisoner since his arrival in Sleepy Hollow. Agent Walters wouldn't have called it that, of course, but that did not mean it wasn't true.

Ichabod carefully scanned the room as he followed Miss Mills into it. A fairly simple place--a large parlor and a small kitchen off of it. One door was closed on the far side of the room. A bedroom, he expected. Or a bathroom. The wonders of indoor plumbing still awed him a little bit.

There were several windows--methods of egress--which he took note of before he turned his gaze back to Jennifer Mills, who stood in the center of the room with a grin on beautiful face.

He couldn't help it. His eyebrow winged upward in a question he refused to voice.

"You're a soldier, aren't you?" she asked.

He frowned, not wanting to give away any sort of information without a reason.

"You stand like one. Straight back and at attention." She tilted her head again, considering him. "But you've got your weight on the balls of your feet. Ready for action, should you need to take it.

Ichabod was impressed despite himself. He studied Jennifer Mills, who didn't stand with the same military erectness, but had eyes almost like a cat's. Looking and seeing things. Observant. Always ready to pounce.

"You have the look of a warrior yourself, Miss Mills," he said finally.

"Not military," she said, her lips quirking up in a half-smile. "But warrior fits well enough, I guess."

She locked the door behind him and methodically checked the blinds on the windows, which already were down over them. Once she was finished, she turned to him and said in a low voice, "This is going to sound crazy. And I have spent my life being called crazy. For any number of reasons. But I saw your watch, and I just couldn't let you walk away."

Ichabod felt a sudden strong desire to clasp his hand over the pocket watch, which was nestled in a tiny pocket on the inside of his coat. He frowned at her but didn't speak.

"I come from a long line of crazy. My grandmother used to say she had 'words from God'. Not just answers to prayer in the Bible study, but rolling her eyes back into her head, body getting possessed with the spirit and spouting out languages she didn't know." She inhaled, her eyes narrowing a bit, before she continued. "And before you say anything about Penecostal churches and speaking in tongues, this was no praisin' the Lord on Sundays."

Ichabod wasn't quite certain what a Penecostal church was, but he recalled speaking in tongues being some sort of ability to speak about the resurrection of Jesus in a language unknown by the speaker. He'd never known anyone with such an ability, but then again, he'd hadn't known his wife was a witch, either, so, he guessed, he didn't know everything.

"My mother swore she saw demons. All the time. She worried about my sister and me constantly. Freaked out my father enough that he finally took off." Jennifer got a bit of a hunch in her shoulders as she spoke. Likely defensive in nature. Ichabod kept his own counsel, not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be a rather fantastical story.

"She used to rant about all sorts of crazy stuff. Demons, witches, ghouls and goblins. Halloween all year 'round at the Mills house." Jennifer sniffed and rolled her eyes.

Ichabod did not let the pity he felt cross his face. He instinctively knew that Miss Mills wouldn't appreciate or welcome it. And even though his last words with his own parents hadn't been good ones, he had had a good relationship with them for most of his life. A life of plenty and of love. Miss Mills and her sister had not been so fortunate.

"They finally locked her up after..." Jennifer's voice broke off and she rolled her shoulders, her voice taking on a more aggressive tone. "Just locked up."

She paused for a few moments, obviously struggling with herself over memories that didn't come easy for her. Finally, she blew out a breath and continued. "Mama used to talk a lot about weird things. She called me a 'watcher' a lot. 'You be observant, girl. Don't miss the boat. You hear me?'" Her voice called out in strident tones, taking on a cadence obviously similar to her mother's. "Abbie--that's my sister--she got that sort of thing, too. We just thought she was off. Crazy, you know? I mean, when you've got a mother seeing demons, you just don't think it's normal. No one does."

Ichabod didn't nod or agree with her. He'd seen too much abnormality to agree with such a statement. And, it appeared, that Jennifer Mills didn't really need an answer from him to continue.

"But one of the last times--one of the times before they took her away--she pulled me aside and told me that I was a watcher and Abbie was a witness. And that it was my job to watch out for the other witness."

His eyes widened a bit as he looked at her. She finally raised her eyes to meet his. "She mentioned I'd know you by your watch. That'd you'd have a pocket watch."

Ichabod felt as if time was stilling in that moment. The room almost vanished from his line of sight. All he could focus on were those brown and gold cat's eyes looking back at him.

"I search for antiquities, Mr. Crane," she said in a soft voice. "And I've heard tell of a pocket watch that allows its user to travel in time." Her fists tightened as she stared at him. "Your dialect is old. Your clothes are straight out of Colonial America. And you have a pocket watch." She inhaled again. "I don't want to be crazy, Mr. Crane, but I have seen so much shit that I can't explain. And all I could hear in my ear when I was standing behind the bar was my mama telling me to find the other witness for Abbie's sake. That I was the watcher." Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. "My sister is no believer in the supernatural, Mr. Crane. She runs from it. She doesn't want to have anything to do with demons, ghosts or ghoulies." Jennifer crossed her arms in front of her, looking like the warrior Ichabod had instinctively known she was. "She's not going to believe this. Any of it. She's going to think..."

Her voice trailed off, and Ichabod was almost afraid to speak. She finally closed her eyes, letting out a pithy, "Shit."

"Indeed," he said softly, finally letting a hint of the sympathy he felt cross his face.

"It's true, isn't it?" she whispered. "You're a witness. A real, fucking time-traveling witness of God. Hellfire, demons, the apocalypse--the whole shebang."

"That's what I've been told," he replied, feeling an eerie kind of shiver down his spine as she stared at him. He could almost see an old weariness shift through her eyes, as if legions of warriors had passed a mantle down through the centuries, and it had landed on her fragile shoulders with a weight of gravity and pain. A mantle she didn't want, but wore with a kind of peculiar pride.

"And Abbie is one, too," she said, almost as if she hadn't heard him.

The sound of her phone ringing startled both of them, so intently had they been focused on each other and the magnitude of what they were discussing. Jennifer looked down and took in a sharp breath. "It's Abbie," she said. She swiped the phone, answering the call. "Abs?"

And then a slow, steady chime began out of nowhere. Jennifer looked at him in surprise, and Ichabod finally realized that the chime was coming from him.

He'd left the telephone in his car, and he hadn't let his clothes out of sight since he'd arrived, giving them his own personal washing rather than letting anyone in that house he'd been kept in touch them. _What the devil could be...?_

He then realized what it had to be. Stunned, Ichabod reached into his pocket and pulled out the dented watch and flipped it open.

It was chiming the hour. The hour of four o'clock. A watch that hadn't even moved a second in a month.

"The time, Miss Mills. What is the current time?" he asked, ignoring the fact that the woman in question was apparently listening to quite a tirade, based on the level of the voice reverberating through the phone.

"Six o'clock," she said, her eyes focused on him, confused but curious. "Why? What does it mean?"

He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

The watch had gained an hour and fourteen minutes and was even at this moment, ticking away merrily forward.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I just don't know."


	5. Chapter 5

"...and if you think you can just interfere, muck up my case, and _abscond_ with Ichabod Crane..." Abbie's anger had reached ridiculous heights if she was pulling out words like "abscond".

Jenny had bought Abbie a "Word-a-Day" calendar some years ago as a joke, and Abbie had turned the joke around on her by learning--and using--all the words on a regular basis to tweak her, but she only ever used them when she was angry. It normally amused Jenny more than anything else, but there was little to be amused about that day. Ichabod Crane was in the house, and because he was, Abbie was in danger.

"Abs, stop. Stop. Just _stop_ and listen to me for a minute." Jenny broke into her sister's tirade when Abbie took a breath.

There was a long silence before Abbie bit out, "Speak."

"Four trees, Abbie," she said softly. "Four. _Trees._

Jenny winced as she heard Abbie's startled intake of breath. It was something neither of them ever spoke of: the time where the two of them had seen something horrible--something _supernatural_ happen in the woods as teenagers. Jenny had told those who'd found them the truth and had had been in and out of mental hospitals for years as a result. Abbie, on the other hand, had chosen to lie, which had sent her off in a guilt tailspin that had led to drug use and despair. Both of them had climbed out of the pit they'd been in, thanks to the intervention of August Corbin into their lives.

They'd reached an uneasy truce with each other, and they'd put a patch over that rift between them. But the issue underlying it had never fully been dealt with or acknowledged by either one of them. And now, it appeared, that issue was coming back to the forefront with a vengeance.

Abbie still hadn't said a word. And it had been too long that they'd been on the phone. The last thing they needed was a trace on Ichabod Crane's location.

"You know where I am, Abs. Come find me."

And with that, Jenny ended the call and turned off her phone.

**Across town...**

"What do you mean he hasn't returned?" Agent Walters' voice cracked through the phone like a bullet. David wondered to himself, yet again, why he had taken on this job. There were so many easier positions as a man's butler over in his home country of England. Dealing with someone as unruly as Ichabod Crane and his American sensibilities was taxing on his poor nerves. He should have taken that nice valet position in Corning like his mother had suggested.

David sighed. "Exactly what I said, Agent Walters. He had not responded to my calls for lunch and had locked the door to the library. By the time I returned for a second try to bring him some sustenance, I found that he'd vacated the library, and his SUV was missing from its normal space in front of the house.

"I sent Mr. Jones as protection as per your protocol. Mr. Jones advised that he had located Lord...Mr. Crane's vehicle near Mabie's Tavern, and the device in his key fob gave his location as in the tavern itself. It was assumed he had continued with his quest to find the next witness. Jennifer Mills works as a bartender in that establishment."

Agent Walters' huff of impatience made David begin to speak a little faster and more succinctly. "Mr. Jones waited a proper amount of time near the tavern, waiting for Mr. Crane to return to his vehicle. After a period of time, when he did not, Mr. Jones entered the tavern. Both Miss Mills and Mr. Crane were nowhere to be found." He took another breath and continued, "Mr. Jones initiated a trace on the device in Mr. Crane's key fob." He swallowed once before he continued in almost a whisper, "Mr. Jones found it abandoned in the dumpster behind the tavern."

"Fuck!" was the only reply from Agent Walters.

"Perhaps Jennifer Mills is the second witness?" David ventured, hesitance in his voice.

"Brilliant deduction," Agent Walters said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"What now, then?" he asked.

"We go after her sister," Walters replied in an icy, deadly voice. "Ichabod Crane may have no intentions of playing nice with us, but Jennifer Mills is, from all reports, fairly close with her sister. If we have Abigail Mills, we'll have Jennifer Mills."

David shivered a little at the tone of the man's voice. "Any instructions for me?"

"Stay where you are and wait to see if Crane returns. I will handle the rest." With that, he terminated the call.

David set down his cell phone with trembling hands. If Jennifer Mills was the second witness, he hoped to God that He would protect her and Ichabod Crane. Because God was the only option those two had now.

**Meanwhile...**

Abbie tossed her cell phone on the table, almost as if it would burn her. _Four trees. God. Four_ trees.

She thought she and Jenny had finally reached a point in their lives where they could put to rest the ridiculous, insane ravings of their mother and go forward in their lives, happily and completely boogieman free.

But no. _No._ Her case with Ichabod Crane had some tie-in with all of that damned four trees crap. Witches and ghosts and demons and ghouls.

Abbie stared at the photograph of the man, dressed in his old-time Colonial clothes, trying to blot out the barrage of memories flooding through her mind.

Nothing about this damned case made sense. Not Damien Moloch. Not Jenny, and certainly not Ichabod Crane.

Damien Moloch mentioned she'd earn every bit of the hundred thousand dollar retainer in trying to obtain the watch from Ichabod Crane. She'd frankly been doubtful.

But now that Jenny had mentioned the four trees? A hundred thousand dollars wasn't _nearly_ enough.

"Shit." Abbie stared at the picture for a few moments more before she gathered up all the documents Moloch had given her, stuffed them into the envelope, and then tucked the envelope into a pocket in her bag. Then, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked over to a small bookcase on one side of the room.

She pulled on an old book, Nora Roberts' novel, _The Witness_ , which Jenny had used as the trigger as a joke when designing the secret passage cover, and the bookcase slid open, highlighting a staircase that wound down to the tunnels beneath Sleepy Hollow.

After Abbie had disappeared down the staircase, the novel that had triggered the bookcase slid into a slot inside the wall, and a pulp vampire novel entitled "Bite Me" slid into the place the trigger had been, preventing anyone from using the same path again.


End file.
